


A Reservoir of Agony

by Shellbacker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mental Breakdown, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellbacker/pseuds/Shellbacker
Summary: There was a backlog of jobs and she needed a hand. That was all MacCready knew - that, and he'd get half of every payout. A few weeks later, they were one simple task away from finishing the stack. There was only one problem.It just had to be ferals.





	A Reservoir of Agony

**Author's Note:**

> Grabbed ol' Mac again during a newer playthrough and immediately took a job to clear a place of ferals. Right in the middle of being swarmed, I recalled his backstory that I had shamefully forgotten about until that moment, which sparked the inspiration for this piece. I needed a break from my main fic anyway.
> 
> So be warned, if you haven't progressed through MacCready's character arc, this contains spoilers.
> 
> Also, if you've got any issues with PTSD or anything suicide-related, I suggest you don't read any further.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy the kick to the feels!

The inside was darker than the bags hanging under their eyes. For weeks, MacCready had been walking all over the Commonwealth with this woman, a new employer he only knew as 'Mel.' The jobs were non-stop, but this was the last one. The sickly green light that emitted from her Pipboy flew over the space, slowing as it began scanning the walls nearest the entrance. He knew the second he saw that wrist-mounted computer, Mel was either a naive vault dweller who was going to get him killed, or an experienced, well-travelled mercenary like himself. So far, she was anything but naive.

“There.” Mel's light froze over a pad of two circular buttons under a faded label.

MacCready manoeuvred the metal grating beneath his feet and punched one of the buttons, then the other.

“Crap. Looks like light's out,” he remarked. “Just what we needed.”

 _Last one, then I'm set for a month_ , he kept thinking. _Only a few ghouls; no big deal._

Mel pulled the door shut behind them. It closed with a faint screech that made MacCready cringe. He heard Mel's footsteps circle him, her light floating in the air. She sighed, removing the device from her wrist and placing it on a workbench with the light trained on the platform's descending staircase. Of all the places the scavvers of Goodneighbor could want to loot, they chose the Poseidon Reservoir on the outskirts of the Commonwealth.

They said no one else was better suited for the job and the hike it entailed. Over the last several weeks as they turned in job after job, the pair developed a reputation together, earning the mock team name 'Mac n' Mel,' or 'M&M' for short. At first, it infuriated them, much to the amusement of the Third Rail's patrons. But, it stuck – and as fatigue crept into their bones, they looked past it, valuing the jobs' pay higher than the degrading pet name they acquired.

Not that MacCready minded. They worked well together. After the first week, it started to feel more like a partnership than any other job where he'd get bossed around by some hothead who didn't have the faintest idea what they were doing. That element was a welcome change, but Mel was still a firecracker, taking almost every opportunity to poke fun at him, or viciously chew out whoever wouldn't pay them for a completed job. Once, it came to fists with the job issuer, plus a bodyguard. She took them both down before MacCready could swing a fist of his own.

It made him wonder. For a brief night back in town, he asked around, trying to figuring out exactly who she was. Some said she did work for the Brotherhood of Steel, but that was all he could find out. Little did he know that she was a retired Sentinel, former right-hand woman to the Elder himself and credited for being the spearhead of several operations that led to the annihilation of the Institute. But there was no tell, no insignia on her attire, no speech that hinted at zealotry or a compulsive desire to keep technology away from ordinary folk.

Her appearance was rugged, perfect to cover as a merc: army boots bloused under worn black combat pants, a dark brown, blood-spattered leather jacket covering a faded red collar shirt and gritty white tank top. One night at the Rexford, he walked in on her changing, purely by accident, and noticed her stretch marks in the lamplight.

So, she was a lethal, witty, short-tempered young mother who might've worked for the Brotherhood – not much to go on – but MacCready would be kidding himself if he wasn't as attracted to her as he was intimidated. The saving grace was that their relationship had to be kept professional, despite eyes that may have wandered. Over midnight campfires and even the lamp in her Rexford room, light shone off her vigilant eyes, a quick pale green that missed no detail. The feature stood in heavy contrast to her darker skin and almost black brown hair which she always kept tied in a mess of a bun. A single rogue strand was always present, never ceasing to disrupt her concentration as she brushed it behind her ear or blew it out of the way.

It was the same lock of hair that tickled her face in the darkness as she moved beside MacCready. A throw of her head ended her irritation for the moment.

“Seems quiet,” she said. “Then again, could be their nap time.”

She waited for a response, giving him ample opportunity for a gab. Something was off. She expected him to reply with a follow-up, 'Yeah, _too quiet,_ ' and an accompanying chuckle. It was a quick phrase they adopted early to verbally confirm they were focused and alert. She also knew MacCready was a dork and wouldn't pass up a chance to say cliches like that, no matter how repetitive they became. He could've even said something about the ghouls' nap time – but, nothing.

“Mac,” she called, nudging his shoulder.

“Hmm? Sorry, can't see a thing in here.”

“Hope that's all.” And it better be. The last thing she needed was her help getting distracted in a feral nest. “You want the Pipboy or Cateye?”

“I'll take the pills,” he said.

They banked on the reservoir's internal lighting being functional, but Mel was always prepared. The pouches on her belt were stuffed with all kinds of knick-knacks. It was like magic to MacCready seeing what she pulled out of there. She never _didn't_ have something. If she didn't, she'd scrounge something up from junk within the span of a few cigarettes. As for the Cateye, never again would MacCready use a directional flashlight around ferals if he could help it. He'd take every advantage this woman offered. Cateye was as rare as a good bar of soap.

“A'ight. Yell if you need anything.”

Normally, he'd make a crude remark back at that. This time, he didn't find it funny at all. Ferals – yelling – yeah, a winning combination, for sure.

She held the bottle of pills to his chest until he took it. After slipping her device back on, she unsheathed the machete she brought strapped to her leg and palmed one of her two pistols, making her way to the platform's staircase. The dim green spectre of her light bobbed behind her silhouette before she vanished into blackness.

Not wasting time, MacCready rattled out what felt like two capsules in his hand. Swishing some spit between his cheeks, he quickly swallowed them. Now he had a few minutes to spare before the effects started kicking in. In those moments, he did naught but put his back against the door and idly reposition his rifle against his shoulder.

_Maybe you shoulda brought a machete too, RJ. Ya mungo. What's she gonna do? Tie a second blade to herself for you? Jeez._

Now that he thought of it, it was a little arousing.

He pushed the thought away with cycles of deep breathing. At least he had a combat knife tucked under his belt, but it was no machete. The idea of getting close enough to a feral in there to use it raked his nerves. Mel had no idea they bothered him. There was one job where the issuer overreacted and sent them to put down a small pack in broad daylight that was terrorizing a settlement. This was different. He had no idea how many there were. He was in pitch black darkness and confined quarters. Talk about jump scares waiting to happen! Cateye would serve him better for that purpose than any Pipboy light.

He started to see the workbench's contours, but that was only his eyes adjusting naturally. Soon after, the darkness took on a green hue and gradually opened to the rest of the space. It looked like someone was dramatically opening a light dimmer. Once his vision could reach the far walls of the reservoir, he took it as his cue to get going.

The lack of light seemed to absorb the life out of everything, leaving all MacCready saw in a dull myriad of green shades. Nevertheless, he could see, and no light would tip any ferals off. He the scanned the base of the stairs before reaching the landing. Sure, Mel already went by, but whereas humans shuffle in their sleep to rest in a more comfortable position, ferals liked to crawl across rooms, over small obstacles, as if having a sharp nudge of a stair in their side could be relaxing.

MacCready reached the bottom. An array of pipes of varying sizes sprawled the space a little above his head while large cylindrical tanks sat all over the room. Some spaces in between them were impassable by either their pipes, control panels, or more workbenches. Turning to his left, MacCready passed under the stairs to a workshop. Benches, cabinets, and tool shelves lined the walls into a corner.

Laying rather still and almost indiscernible from scattered junk heaps were a pair of ferals. The sniper was a step away from disturbing one before he saw it twitch. The movement sent a bolt of fear through his spine as he froze. His eyes then darted over the rest of the floor, noticing the second resting peacefully by the first's side.

Judging by the torn remnants of clothing still singed to their bodies, one was a man and the other a woman. Or, maybe they were both men and one just preferred wearing dresses. MacCready tried to calm himself with his ridiculous thoughts. Taking a deep, slow inhale, he tiptoed around the one to his left, towards its head. He had an idea, but he had to get rid of both of them quick before one could get a scream off, alerting others.

He raised the butt of his rifle above is head and jumped, bring both his feet down on the first ghoul's head. It gave like a rotting gourd and made MacCready squirm internally. It startled the second feral who immediately twisted its head up at an unnatural angle. It stifled a growl but MacCready used the momentum of his landing to drive his rifle into its forehead, sending it back to the ground with a satisfying crack.

Already he could make out the smell of rotten flesh and blood. It compared to a burned mould mixed with the stale coppery scent of blood. Somewhere in between there was a whiff of rotted eggs that caused the sniper's instinctual gag. He let out his breath as far as he could to get the smell and taste out of his system, then pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth. It made the air feel stuffy and uncomfortable, but he didn't mind it to the latter.

Rounding the workshop, he made his way through a rear section of tanks and pipework, eyes always trained on the ground for anything remotely resembling a decayed human being. Several strides down, it was still clear. To his right the wall opened into a short passage that immediately twisted and followed the length of its greater room.

A spare tank, ladder, and other tools sat at its end, but there was space behind the tank big enough to hide other things. As much as the proximity nipped at his gut, he had to look anyway. MacCready raised the blunt end of his rifle before making it all the way around. There was one ghoul hunched in the corner, resting on its haunches, eating something. While bringing down one of his feet, MacCready crushed a piece of glass. The ghoul's skull twisted to the disturbance and the sniper lunged. After pulling himself back from the attack, he tried wriggling away the cold sweat that had been building along his spine, but to no effect.

The turn of his heel brought him face to face with another feral. Upright, arms extended – and totally aware of MacCready's trespass. The latter stifled a shout and jerked against the trigger. The rifle's muzzle flash blinded him for a fraction of a second as the shot's explosion shook his ears into submission. The feral grunted into a recoil, taking a step back. And then it straightened back up and released a noise so terrible it sounded more like a death sentence than a wild shriek.

MacCready's eyes tunnelled on its infrequent, jagged teeth and patches of flayed flesh and muscle going to the bone. The adrenaline dumped and coursed, making him reef the rifle's bolt catch in a manner so rushed and sloppy that part of him almost prayed another bullet reached the chamber without jamming. Lifting the barrel higher, he squeezed again.

What remained of the feral's head was blown away like dust in the wind. Its corpse spasmed for a second before collapsing. MacCready sharply exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding while another relentless chill shuddered through his bones. Suddenly his chest was on fire, pounding out every breath he hadn't released.

The last sound he ever wanted to hear pierced his ears with the weight of every sleepless and painful night he'd been though. Sporadic groans and howls reverberated through the small passage, their thunder enough to reel MacCready back until he hit the wall. His chest was weaving as he forced himself to crank another round in his rifle's chamber. He already forgot how many he had left.

He raised the weapon to his shoulder, sights set on the passage's entrance, but he was breathing too hard to aim straight. He couldn't do this. Not again. His eyes darted frantically over the space, looking for an out, but they stopped over the feral that alerted the pack. As the sight set in, he realized this feral was smaller than usual, the size of a child no more than ten years old. A single word flashed across his conscience.

_Duncan._

He couldn't –

MacCready had to hold a palm over his eyes, but the damage was done. Before he could account for every emotion stabbing him, tears streamed freely and twisted his face in the darkness. He failed. Whatever was coming for him, he deserved it. He deserved all of it, but he wasn't going down until every one of them went with him.

He wiped the first wave of tears away with the back of his hand and laid it on his rifle, levelling it above his hip. It wasn't long before his vision blurred again.

“Come on!” he shouted, straining his voice as loud as it could go.

Two limped inquisitively through the passage and MacCready immediately opened fire. One fell and the other took off at the sniper. It was a short space. He didn't have the time to send another round through before the feral was within an arm's length. Turning his rifle, MacCready shoved at the lunging abomination, catching it square in the chest and blocking its flexed hands. It shrieked in his face and he screamed back before throwing the rest of his strength against it, pushing it onto its back.

More ghouls piled through the entrance, growling and hissing as he shot the second feral on the ground. The first two of the pack leaped in a frenzy, claws extended and mouths frothed for the fear they could already taste. That was it. MacCready felt the heat reach its peak. It was over.

Shouting, he laid another round into the ghouls. One collapsed at his feet while the other met the end of his rifle. It took two thrusts but its head caved in as easy as the others. As he turned, three more were on top of him, nearly falling over themselves trying to claw at their meal over the wood of his rifle. They got through nonetheless and MacCready felt the sting of air against him as they cut into his skin and ripped at his clothes.

“No!” His cry was guttural and foreboding.

He kicked and screamed more, matching the volume of his nightmare. One fell away and gave him enough space to grasp the knife tucked in his belt. An upward twist of the rifle sent another stumbling against the side wall. The third grabbed his arm and went for a bite but met the penetrating steel instead. It dropped and MacCready levelled the rifle again, driving the stock into the feral against the wall.

The middle ghoul that was knocked away from the rifle came barrelling in again and MacCready fired. Its body absorbed the bullet like a sponge as it forced its weight against the man, pinning him to the wall behind him. The rifle impaled the ghoul's torso and paralyzed MacCready's hands as he tried fruitlessly to move it.

“N-no!” he wailed again, watching as the creature opened its mouth and closed in further.

Inches away, MacCready let go and shoved its head aside into the wall, giving it a wide slash. He back away, waiting for the ghoul to fall. In the green tinge of his vision he saw the blood spurt out of its scalp as it twisted its head toward him. Its neck cracked as it hunched further, the rifle protruding straight through to its back.

“You're not taking me,” he croaked. “Only I'm taking me!”

He backed into the corner behind the tank, pressed between it and the walls. It limped the few feet to MacCready. He didn't know if he meant what he said. Duncan was gone now. Maybe a painful way to go was what he needed, what he truly deserved for the failure of his promise.

Instead, he found himself swiping, cutting, slashing at every inch of the ghoul as it approached. He couldn't see, his eyes overflowed with tears. Off came a finger, two, slices of burned muscle and flesh as both of them howled at each other. When it was close enough, MacCready hacked. He hacked and hacked and hacked until the wet stump that pressed against his shoulder fell to the ground.

He pumped his arm with what limited space he had, straight into the monster's front, its neck, and face. What remained if its hair, he grabbed, pulling its jaws of death from his face and mercilessly bringing the blade down into its skull again and again and again. Pressed against him, the ghoul finally fell slack and he shoved with two hands, collapsing.

The floor was wet, slick with blood. MacCready convulsed into heavy sobs, arching his back at an angle that intensified the gut-wrenching sorrow that twisted him. He clenched his fists in the liquid and fell to his elbows.

“I'm sorry... I'll be with you soon.”

“Mac!”

A voice echoed, but the sniper paid it no heed, or didn't hear it. He used every fibre of will he had left and forced himself upright. Dislodging the rifle from the last feral, he fell back onto his rear and turned the weapon on himself.

“Mac!” It was getting closer.

He put the barrel in his mouth, slipping a finger into the trigger guard. It tasted of iron, rank copper, and salt from his tears.

Finally, he closed his eyes.

“Bobby...” Her voice came from the darkness, soft and concerned, the voice of an angel.

That was his sign.

_Click._

Panic swept over him and he opened his eyes. Something was wrong! It didn't go off!

_Click._

There was the light. It blinded the side of his vision and flew gracefully to his side. Somehow, his rifle suddenly vanished from his hands. MacCready rose to follow it but was struck by the full force of the light in front of him.

“Bobby,” she beckoned again, sadness creeping into her tone.

“I'm sorry, Lucy.” He fell onto his arms again, then abandoned all resistance, laying flat at her feet.

“There's just... just so much blood!” he sobbed. “I'm so sorry... H-he's gone! He's gone...”

A hand laid on the back of his head, fingers rustling through his hair. It only made him wail harder.

“Just take me already!”

The hand persisted, its touch getting ever softer like a feather. It was too comforting, too endearing for him to take it. Everyone was gone. It only made sense for him to be too.

“Get up, Robert. Look at me.”

Part of him didn't want to. If he did, he knew what he'd see. The very last sight he had of her: torn to bits and half-eaten, covered in blood and bone. But MacCready didn't protest. He rose to his knees, hands lain defeated at his side. Another sob twisted his face before he heard a click.

Suddenly, the light was gone and he felt completely and utterly alone. Everything was black again. He hung his head, but was surprised to feel the embrace of arms around him, then a body.

“It's gonna be okay, Bobby,” she whispered into his ear. “I'm here. I'm here.”

He folded into her touch, wrapping his arms over her clothed back, and wept.

“I'm sorry, Lucy,” he repeated.

“ _Shh._ ”

“I'm so sorry...”

After a few minutes, MacCready succumbed to his fatigue and Mel's voice, falling asleep in her arms. The moment she heard the howls, she knew it was a bad idea to separate. It was the stupidest thing they could've done. MacCready wasn't the only victim of exhaustion.

She carried him out of the reservoir. When he woke against a picnic table across the road, she convinced him he was hit in the head and fell unconscious. It was all just a nightmare.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite tearing up yet? Want more feels? Try this on for size: Come Back To Me - Les Friction


End file.
